


the flower that blooms in adversity

by iphigenias



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 17:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16163231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iphigenias/pseuds/iphigenias
Summary: Enjolras dyes his hair. Grantaire paints Enjolras. It's all Courfeyrac's fault.





	the flower that blooms in adversity

**Author's Note:**

> this is probably terrible but it was so much fun to write so i don't really care. title is from mulan. if anyone's curious i always imagine [batcii's](http://batcii.tumblr.com/post/176731735408/hello-waiter-could-i-get-one-sunlit-golden-boy) [enjolras](http://batcii.tumblr.com/post/137988662083/enjoralls-more-enjolras-in-dungarees-i-was) in my head

It starts, unsurprisingly, with Courfeyrac.

“You know, Enj,” he says one morning, draping himself over the arm of the couch to curl up inside Enjolras’ personal space. “All this time cooped up indoors isn’t healthy.”

“Maybe I should just ask my thesis advisor for a raincheck on the submission date, then?” Enjolras replies, not looking up from the screen of his laptop. “Or invent a way of powering my computer with solar energy. Both of those solutions probably involve the same amount of effort.”

“You know I know that you’re joking but both of those _are_ excellent suggestions,” Courf says. He tugs insistently at Enjolras’ hair. “I mean look at this! Your hair is practically _fading_ _away_ out of the sun.”

“That’s not how hair works, Courf.”

“Uh, yeah it is.” Courf tugs more insistently. “I’m serious, Enj. You’re not as blonde anymore! You can’t let go of our Elle Woods fantasy so easily.”

“ _Your_ Elle Woods fantasy,” Enjolras says, but he sighs and closes his laptop in defeat. “All I wanted was to go to law school.”

“What, like it’s hard?” Courf says. “Sorry, it’s reflex by now. But seriously, Enj—I miss platinum blonde you.”

“I’m glad that’s all you value me for,” Enjolras says dryly.

“That’s not true,” Courf pouts. “You also have a hot bod.”

Enjolras removes his glasses and presses a hand against his closed eyes. He’s developing a headache. “Thank you, Courf. Can you please get to the point?”

“Ideally I would force you outside for an entire week of sunshine but I know that’s not going to happen,” Courfeyrac says mournfully. “How about a quick dye job instead?”

Enjolras removes his hand and stares. “You want me to dye my hair?” he says slowly. “You cried the last time I cut it. And then removed all the scissors from our house so I wouldn’t cut it again.”

“Because your hair is _beautiful_ ,” Courf says. “And we’d only be dyeing it back to your normal colour—temporarily of course, until you finish your thesis and can finally become a living, breathing human person again!”

Enjolras sighs. There’s only one way to get Courf off his back about this. “All right,” he says, pushing Courf off him and standing. “It couldn’t hurt.”

They will both come to regret those words.

*

Courf volunteers to buy the dye, which is their first mistake. The second is Enjolras letting Courf actually do the dyeing.

“Okay, so… don’t be mad,” Courf says, which brings their count up to three.

“What did you do?” Enjolras says through gritted teeth. Courf has turned him so his back is to the mirror.

“Well,” Courf says, taking three steps back until he’s pressed against the door. “I might have purchased the wrong dye.”

Enjolras turns to face the mirror.

He blinks.

His hair is _pink_. Thankfully not of the neon variety, but it’s bright enough to be unmistakable.  

“Well,” he says, turning his head back and forth. The pink really does go all the way round; Courf was nothing if not thorough. “It’s. Something.”

“A good something?” Courf squeaks from the door. Enjolras looks at him. He looks at the sink where the dye bottle sits, still a quarter full. He looks at Courf again.

“Oh, fuck,” Courf says feelingly, opening the door so aggressively it bangs into the wall and leaves a dent. Enjolras doesn’t notice that until later; right now he’s too busy chasing Courf through the apartment with the open bottle of dye in his hand. Luckily none spills on the carpet, but when Combeferre arrives home from work an hour later he finds them both in the kitchen, Enjolras sitting on the counter with his pink hair pulled up into a bun and Courf at the stove cooking apology pancakes, a bright stripe of pink hair dye splashed across his cheek.

“I have so many questions,” Ferre says. “But I’ll have a pancake first.”

*

The thing is, it’s not _horrible_. Enjolras does give himself a start the next morning when he looks at himself in the mirror without remembering what happened the day before; but the pink is really a rather soft pastel, and doesn’t clash as horribly with his favourite red hoodie as he feared it would. He doesn’t have a meeting with his supervisor until next week, either; he decides the pink can stay until then.

In hindsight, he probably should have informed the others before their meeting that night.

Most of the group are already at the Musain when Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre arrive. Eponine is by the door and sees them enter first; she bursts out into loud, hiccupping laughter as soon as Enjolras steps into view. Bahorel joins her; Cosette grins widely and says she likes it; Grantaire spits out his drink.

“Ask him,” is all Enjolras has to say on the matter, jerking his thumb at where Courf is trying to hide behind Combeferre. He keeps the meeting brief that night, because Eponine won’t stop sniggering and Grantaire hasn’t looked away from him once.

Something small and warm rests inside Enjolras at the thought.

“Last chance to say something,” Enjolras says to him, sitting beside Grantaire after the meeting is adjourned.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting rid of it,” Grantaire says, clutching a hand to his heart. “It makes you so much more approachable. Just think of the children!”

“I’m approachable,” Enjolras says grumpily. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose from where they’d slipped down. “And I have to get rid of it. I can’t exactly defend my thesis with pink hair.”

“Why not?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras gapes at him for a second.

“Just—just because,” he responds shortly. Grantaire’s mouth does a complicated twist into a frown. The warm feeling inside Enjolras evaporates.

“Wait,” he says, because Grantaire looks like he’s about to stand and walk away. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just been a long day.”

Grantaire settles back into his seat and smiles wryly. “Thesis kicking your ass?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Enjolras says. He and Grantaire have gotten better at talking without arguing these days, but it still feels like he has to choose every word carefully. “How’s your final project coming along?”

“Oh, well.” Grantaire stares into into his empty glass. “It’s coming.”

Enjolras looks at his hands. It’s never this hard to find something to talk about with his other friends, but with Grantaire it feels as though his tongue is a block of cement. Sometimes Enjolras wonders if they’ll ever be good at something other than riling each other up.

“Actually,” Grantaire says, breaking the silence. He sounds hesitant. “If it’s not too much trouble… would you mind coming over before you get rid of the pink so I can paint it?”

“Paint it?” Enjolras is perplexed. No one has ever wanted to paint him before.

“I—yeah,” Grantaire says. He might be blushing a little, though it’s hard to tell in the dim Musain lighting. “It’s just—it’s a really nice colour and I haven’t painted much with pink before so it’ll be good practice.” The words ring in Enjolras’ ears like a lie, but maybe he’s just searching for a reason to say no.

 _Why?_ he asks himself. _Why say no?_

“I’m free tomorrow?” Enjolras says after a moment, framing it as a question. Grantaire breaks into a shy grin.

“That’s perfect. I’ll see you then, Enjolras.” This time, when Grantaire gets up to leave, Enjolras makes no move to stop him.

*

“You’re early,” Grantaire says when he opens the door. Enjolras looks at him for a moment: his hair is an inky bird’s nest and the jeans he has on are creased in the thighs.

“Sorry,” Enjolras replies belatedly. “I caught the bus over and it was running ahead of schedule.”

Grantaire waves off his apology and gestures him into the apartment. Enjolras can count on one hand the number of times he’s been here; it’s messy, and covered canvases line the walls. There’s a drop sheet beneath their feet stained with old paint. The room smells faintly of cigarettes. In other words, it is quintessentially Grantaire. Enjolras hides a smile at the thought and sits down where Grantaire directs him.

“Did you want a coffee or breakfast or…” Grantaire trails off when Enjolras shakes his head.

“I ate at home,” he says gently. “But thank you.”

“Okay! Right to it I guess.” Grantaire sounds nervous. Enjolras frowns.

“We don’t have to do this today,” he says. “I’m sorry if I rushed you.”

“No, no,” Grantaire says distractedly. There’s a brush in his hand and he’s already dragging it over the front of a canvas Enjolras can’t see. “It’s just a bit strange for me, that’s all. Painting in front of a live subject is different to what I usually do.”

“Oh.” Enjolras falls quiet for a time. The sun, pouring in through the window, makes its meandering way across the floor. “Can I see?” Enjolras asks after what he deems an appropriate period of time has passed.

“What? No!” Enjolras pauses from where he had already begun to rise from the couch. Grantaire peers out from behind the canvas and sighs. “Please don’t move, Enjolras. I’ll tell you when I’m finished.”

“And then I can see?” Enjolras presses. Grantaire gives a mumbled answer Enjolras can’t hear, but he doesn’t press the issue. He looks at his feet instead. He hadn’t even noticed the socks he put on this morning; they’re blue, covered in little yellow stars. They were a gift from Feuilly last Christmas. Part of the fabric has worn away under his right big toe; soon there’ll be a hole.

Enjolras looks up. Grantaire is actually visible, staring at the canvas with a fierce kind of concentration Enjolras has never seen on his face before. It’s quite a nice face, he thinks faintly. Not pretty by societal standards—but Enjolras has never cared much for those. There’s a smear of blue paint beneath Grantaire’s eyebrow; when he glances up for a moment, Enjolras sees that it matches the colour of his eyes.

“Stop staring at me,” Grantaire says after a minute. Enjolras blinks. He hadn’t even known he was doing it. He looks out the window instead; tugs on a loose pink curl and pulls it in front of his face, letting it catch the light. It really is rather pretty, though he would never tell Courf that.

“Okay,” Grantaire says quietly. Enjolras looks at him. The sun has well and truly made its way across the room now; it lights up the wall beside Grantaire and frames his face in gold. The blue paint under his eyebrow is still there.

“Can I see?” Enjolras asks, not moving from his seat. Grantaire rolls his eyes but nods, and Enjolras stands and walks over.

Grantaire has not painted him sitting on the old threadbare couch with a drop sheet beneath his star-patterned socked feet. Enjolras isn’t sure where the Enjolras in the painting is, but the landscape is languid and sprawling, rather like the pose Enjolras hadn’t realised he’d been sitting in.

“I thought you’d appreciate somewhere out of the city,” Grantaire says quietly. “Where you can keep your hair pink and people won’t give a damn.”

Enjolras wants to lift his hand and touch the wet paint on the canvas. Grantaire has painted him with a slight frown on his face; it would be mildly offensive if Enjolras didn’t know that’s what his face looks like ninety percent of the time. His pink hair, brought to life in all its unruly coils on the canvas, is bound up in the loose bun Enjolras has it in now. Several strands have fallen free and frame the sharp angles of his face against the lush backdrop; it almost looks as though Enjolras belongs there.

“It’s near where I grew up,” Grantaire says when Enjolras finally tears his gaze from the painting. “There are these wildflowers—they grow all year round but it’s summer they really bloom. A lot of people think they’re weeds but they’re just—resilient. They keep growing no matter what. You—your hair—it reminds me of them.”

Enjolras looks back at the painting. “You painted me as a flower?”

“When you say it like that it sounds dumb,” Grantaire says, but there’s a smile in his voice. Enjolras looks back at him. Lifts a careful, gentle hand to wipe at the paint smeared beneath his eyebrow. Grantaire holds perfectly, tremblingly still.

“It’s dried,” Enjolras says after a moment. “I—you have paint on you. But I can’t get it off.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “It’s okay. I’ll get it later.”

Enjolras lets his hand fall to his side. Grantaire is half a head taller than him. “Let me,” he says, stepping out of Grantaire’s space to fetch a washcloth from the bathroom. He runs it under the sink and brings it back out to the lounge, where Grantaire is still standing exactly where he left him. “Lean down a bit,” Enjolras says. Grantaire’s face is inches from his own; he carefully dabs at the splotch of paint until it disappears.

“Am I pretty again?” Grantaire asks, and it was probably meant to come out as a joke but the way he says it is all wrong and Enjolras’ breath is coming too quickly for him to laugh. He carefully folds and sets the washcloth on the coffee table, paint-stained side up. He thinks back to what Courf said right before this whole thing started: _Ideally I would force you outside for an entire week of sunshine._ Enjolras looks at Grantaire and thinks: _I would spend all day in the sun for you._

“What?” This time Grantaire does laugh. There’s a small crease between his eyebrows Enjolras wants to smooth out with his thumb. “Do I have something else on my face?”

Enjolras leans up on his tiptoes and kisses him in answer. The warmth in his chest blooms like a bud in springtime; if Enjolras closes his eyes it almost feels as though they are outside, just the two of them, in the sprawling meadow brought to life on the canvas. Grantaire makes a soft noise into the kiss and Enjolras arches towards him, a flower turned to face the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> when grantaire says "painting in front of a live subject is different to what i usually do" he means that he has painted enjolras many, many times from memory. i imagine enjolras finds this out eventually and kisses grantaire breathless


End file.
